Gemotions

“That’s…that’s my music.” Marco's voice cracked. He stared at the sound system, listening to what was unmistakably the melody he’d crafted in his bedroom. It was playing on repeat, pumping through the speakers of a lavish cocktail lounge.

His palms felt clammy, his stomach twisted itself into knots. A waiter, impeccably dressed, approached him. Marco couldn’t meet his eyes. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling. He felt as if he was suffocating in the plush, suffocating opulence of the room.

The music, his music, was distorted and cheapened, stripped of its soul. Each note was a stab. He wanted to flee, to vanish. He felt an urge to run, to just keep running until he could no longer hear the tune that was supposed to be his.